Wake the Dead
by Lizzy Rebel
Summary: [PRSPD, angsty, dark] Sky Tate wakes up and sees they’re all dead [minor SkySyd]


_Disclaimer:_ I don't own Power Rangers S.P.D. I'm just borrowing them for a spot-o-fun.

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**Wake the Dead**

Sky wakes up with a headache. A pounding headache. One the lodges into the contours of his inner skull and rattles his brain until he moans in pain.

What happened?

Then there it is. A flash of memory. Explosions—unexpected ones—ripping through spandex and leather and—

His mind shuts down.

_No._

It won't tell him, his mind. It won't tell him… what happened.

Maybe he doesn't want to know.

The pounding in his head doesn't stop. Over and over again it reverberates in his cranium, like a record on loop. His fingers press into the rocks and harsh ground beneath him, tiny pebbles biting into his palm. But that pain is nothing.

He can see what's around him.

It isn't the rubble—_when had that happened? We didn't destroy any buildings_—that surprises him. It isn't the fires in the background, the smell of burning flesh, it isn't the screams in the distance, people crying for help, people going unanswered. No, suddenly they don't matter.

Sky Tate wakes up and sees them dead.

Every one of them. Their bodies twisted and littering the ground, decaying among the decayed rubble of their battlefield. Deformed, melting metal all around them, the smell of the copper in the air, and the bright stain of crimson among the ruins.

Blood… how long had it been since he had last seen blood? No one bleeds anymore these days…

But when he was five he had scarped his knee and he had watched with an almost perverted fascination as the rivulet of blood ran down the length of his skinny, pale leg. Then he had wiped it away in a shameful manner, as if baring witness to the red trail had somehow made him a sinner.

Now there is no fascination. He wants to vomit. If his stomach isn't so empty he could have. Instead, he coughs, hacking up whatever mucus and saliva still remains in his esophagus.

Like a disease, the crimson tide washes over to his fingers, pressing palm down into the ground. The sticky substance seeps under his fingers, flowing like an ever moving river. Nothing can stop it. It's mocking him.

There is a low animal moan from somewhere.

He doesn't realize it's from him.

His legs stand. Sky is almost surprised. He doesn't think he would be able to move. He walks forward, his boots sliding against—his mind shuts down again. _Don't think about it. Don't want to know._

And—

Oh, God.

There's Jack Landors, laying back-up on the unforgiving asphalt. Cocky, arrogant red leader. The red's gone from him now, he's in his normal S.P.D. uniform, a uniform he had just learned to wear proudly.

Dark deadlocks cover his face, but not his eyes. His surprised eyes ask: _is this really how I'm going to go?_ And there's no answer for him. He can't hear because he's… he's—

_"What was that? It cut right through me… I think I'm—I'm bleeding."_

Sky had just started to like him. Just started to accept his leadership—albeit, a brash, unconventional leadership—and had just started to learn what friendship was. Friendship formed out of… out of something more than years of training together.

Dead. Now he's dead. No more Jack Landors. His light snuffed out.

Why?

And beside him there's—Sky presses a hand to his mouth. _No. Please no._ But she is there. Laying on her side, hand reaching out for Jack's. Yellow still clings to her, most of her uniform burned off, but pieces of it remain, attached to her skin—_you can't take this from me_.

Z. Z Delgado.

Spunky, sassy, yellow. Dark hair around her fresh, lively face. Her red lips aren't curved into a smirk, a half-smile, a you-don't-really-know-what-I'm-thinking-look. They're tight, closed, shocked, pained. Did she die before or after Jack? _Please before… she'd… she'd go insane… if Jack died first…_

_"It's like… like he's—he's _trying_ to kill us! I think he is!"_

And beside them… of course beside them. He died protecting them, trying to help his teammates because so many thought he couldn't. But he could. He was the bravest, the smartest. The funniest. In the dark times it was his silly statements and unique way of thinking that shone… like a light…

Green… like fresh grass… full of life…

Bridge Carson dead. His vocals ripped from him, no more jokes to speak. Eyes closed as if he had accepted his premature death somewhere in the short span of time between living and dying. Arms open, accepting. Green ranger suit gone somewhere along the way.

_"This guy is beyond being mean! He'll hurt more people if don't stop h—look out!"_

Sky pulls at his hair and then at his skin. Blood is along his arms, oozing from wounds given to him in the blankness of his memory. There is a deep gash on his forehead, crusted with blood and aching. His ranger suit is gone too… replaced by the darker uniform.

He turns from them, from the bodies, and walks away. If he looks for too long he'll just… just fade into nothing. Darkness swarms his vision and he almost blacks out again. Only something keeps him going… he failed his friends, his comrades by blacking out… he failed _them_. And all he had ever wanted to do was _lead_ them.

And then he sees—

_No. It's not real. She's not_—

But she is.

_No!_

_Yes._

"Oh God…" it's ripped from him, those words. Somewhere deep inside Sky there's a hollow place and now it fills. Rage, grief, pain, agony. His face twists and he knows that now… now there is… _nothing_. Only there's now—

Death.

Syd. Sydney Drew. She's there too. Pink cotton candy girl, pretty smiles, pouty lips. Innocent eyes, baby blonde hair, curling with diamonds. Soft hands made for soothing even as her feet are made for kicking. Laughter with bells and cheeks softer than silk. Sing-song Sydney, waiting for a raining day so she can play with Sky.

Only now… they aren't ten anymore.

Now she's forever frozen in open-mouthed horror.

_"Sky, can you hear me? Sky? We need you—Sky—I need—please don't—Sky!"_

His knees crash into the ground beside her limp body, the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. A voice screams in his head. He repeats the words.

"No. No. No."

He grips her small, moon-silk hand, rubs them. They're cold and they will never be warm again. Blood pools along the corners of her lips. Lips meant for smiling, meant for kissing. Lips meant for _breathing_.

Lips now still.

"_NO!"_

It had been them two in the beginning. Syd and Sky. Sky with the know-how and Syd with the people skills. It had been Sky and Syd in the steel halls, eager to learn, eager to save things and people. Then Bridge had come, but in the beginning it had been Syd and Sky.

And now… now it was just Sky because Syd was—she—

Dead.

There had been hopes and dreams with Syd. Secret dreams Sky had wrapped around himself at night like a security blanket. When he was sure no one was listening, he would whisper the things to himself and imagine what it would be like if they were ever achieved.

A house, a family, a safe world. And Syd. Syd was there, in the center of his secret dreams. Smiling with her curling blonde hair, smelling like vanilla and candy. Sometimes she was sleeping in a tangle of blankets, naked body barley concealed by the pristine white of sheets. And then sometimes she had a baby in her arms in a dark room with only the orange tinge of a nightlight. She rocked the baby back and forth, the chair creaking in its rhythmic motions.

Only not anymore. Now Syd is—

He howls, pressing his forehead against her hair, feeling the softness of it matted with blood. Her skin is cold where it should be warm and he hears her, calling him over and over again. _Help_, she says, _help_.

And he can't answer her. Syd dies.

It had been different. The minute they had tracked down the latest in Emperor Gruumm's long line of villains it had been different. The monster hadn't been some distraction so the Emperor's plot could go on without interference.

This monster had been sent to destroy. Sent to hurt. Sent to kill the rangers. Not destroy their megazords, not to eliminate their power. But to eliminate _them_. To take away their lives so they could never interfere again.

And it had succeeded. They had been unprepared for the violence, for the brutal way the monster attacked. It had meant to kill them. It had wanted to make them _bleed_. And they did bleed.

Sky remembers being smashed in the head, his body bearing down on Syd's as she came to assist him. He remembers the blackness and the panic of the other rangers, their screams and worries and doubts and realization that this—this is the end. Then he remembers nothing.

"Cadet?" He blinks when the voice reaches him. It's crackling, like static electricity. But it's _alive_. It's so wonderfully alive. Sky almost sighs in relief.

But—

He looks down at Syd's dead body.

"Sky?" The voice is pleading this time, the underlying message obvious. _Be alive. You're the only one we have left._ "Sky?"

It's Chief Cruger. His voice is commanding and powerful. And not dead. Sky is surrounded by the dead and just outside the world is someone who's alive.

"Sir?" he croaks into his small microphone. His voice sounds old, rusty, ancient. As if he's been asleep for thousands of years and his throat is sore from years of neglect.

"You—you're alive!" Cruger cries, overjoyed. Sky wants to weep. Yes he's alive. So what? "We saw—saw it on the—"

He doesn't finish. There's no point.

Sky curls himself down beside Syd, his hands locks around her smaller ones. Tears cloud his eyes and he doesn't wipe them away.

"We're going to send someone to get you. We'll take you to the hospital," Cruger says.

_Don't bother_, Sky wants to tell him. He wants to stay here with them because he should be dead, too. Only he's not. Everything is wrong. Why is he the only one alive? Jack should be alive—he's the leader. He should be alive to seek justice for their deaths. Or Z because she could do that, too. Or Bridge so he could soothe their families.

Or Syd.

Yes. Syd should be alive because she—

His throat tightens. Sky stops thinking. It's pointless. He's alive and they aren't. Nothing can change it.

He clutches the microphone, feels the tiny metal crack between his fingers. There's nothing left. Nothing left for him expect—

To go on living.

Why? Why should Sky go on living? Because—he looks over at Syd—because they can't. Because they're dead and he isn't. Their lips no longer take in oxygen but his _does_. He takes it in right now.

Sky rests beside the dead and waits for what tomorrow will bring.

The world is going to see red.

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**Word Count:** 1867

**Time:** sixty minutes

**Beta:** none

**Couples:** minor Syd/Sky

**Genre:** angst

**Status:** one-shot (complete)

**Author:** Lizzy Rebel

**Characters/Style:** Sky, deathfic, angst

**Notes:** This is what happens when you baby-sit a seven-year-old on a PR-high and you're a moody teenager. Sorry. The muse wouldn't leave me alone. It's fun to kill characters off… er… yeah.


End file.
